


A Thousand Lives Without You

by knightinmourning



Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo Fills [10]
Category: Good Omens
Genre: Cannibalism (Brief), Cuddles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Not Really Character Death, Panic Attacks, Psychological Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinmourning/pseuds/knightinmourning
Summary: Gabriel and the angels want to stop Aziraphale from interacting with Crowley any more, so they lock him up and force him to experience a series of scenes where Crowley or Aziraphale die at the other's hand. When he’s finally rescued and returned to Crowley, he struggles to believe that Crowley is real anymore.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo Fills [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1425583
Comments: 3
Kudos: 118
Collections: Ineffable Husbands Bingo





	A Thousand Lives Without You

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Torture" square of the Ineffable Husbands Bingo.

“Have a good night, Angel,” Crowley said as Aziraphale opened the passenger door of the Bentley and stepped out into the street in front of A.Z. Fell & Co. It was a Friday night in early fall and the overcast skies were threatening rain.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime soon. There’s a Brazilian barbecue restaurant I’ve been meaning to try,” Aziraphale replied. They’d been dining together more and more often recently, and though they were both pointedly not calling their outings  _ dates _ , Aziraphale suspected that both of them thought of them that way. He shut the door of the Bentley and made his way to the door of his bookshop, listening to Crowley driving away with Queen playing, muted through the material of the car.

When he entered the dark bookshop, Aziraphale didn’t so much see something out of place as felt it. There was something wrong, or at least not-quite-right.

He turned on the lights as he stepped forward into the main room, looking around for what might be setting off the alarms in his head, but found nothing unusual. Books, stacked and shelved on every available surface, sat in the same places they’d lived in for years, and the odd map or globe was untouched.

Aziraphale continued his slow progression to the back room, where he intended to do some research throughout the rest of the night.

“There you are, Aziraphale! It’s so good to see you!”

The voice of Gabriel nearly discorporated Aziraphale in surprise. He spun around to face both Gabriel and Uriel. If he was breathing a little faster than before, well, they probably wouldn’t notice.

“Gabriel! Uriel! To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” He asked.  _ Be polite. They’re probably just passing on orders that were too sensitive for normal channels. _

“We need to talk, Aziraphale.” Uriel’s voice was serious, and they stepped forward as if preparing for a fight.

“Okay. Sure. Let’s talk. Would you like some tea? I can-”

“Not necessary. We’ll only be a few minutes.”

The three of them moved to some comfortable chairs in one corner of the shop, plush tartan cushions in perfect condition indicating how unused they were. Gabriel and Uriel sat next to each, with Aziraphale facing them from the chair closest to the corner.

“What’s this about, then? New orders? A miracle need doing?”

“The demon, Crowley.” Uriel’s steady voice was everything Aziraphale didn’t want to hear.

_ Lie. Say you haven’t heard of him, that you have no association with him and that you would never consider even speaking to a demon. _

“I know of him.”

“Oh, please, Aziraphale. You aren’t kidding anyone anymore. The two of you are practically inseparable. You’re going on dinner dates! Surely even  _ you _ had to know that Heaven and Hell would catch on?” Gabriel looked smug, and Aziraphale suspected he was the one behind Crowley and him being discovered.

It’s not like they had been careful, after all. Weekly dinner dates, road trips in the Bentley,  _ The Arrangement _ . Aziraphale thought the real miracle was that it had taken this many centuries for this conversation to happen.

“I don’t see what the issue is. I still perform miracles, Crowley still ruins people’s lives. As long as we’re doing our jobs, does it really matter if we’re occasionally meeting for dinner?” 

“It does. Which is why you must be punished.” Uriel stood as they spoke, and Aziraphale rose in response. The last thing he wanted was to fight two angels. They were still his colleagues, and if they did it here, there was an excellent chance the bookshop would be destroyed.

And probably half of London in the process.

It didn’t matter though, because before he could even think of attacking or defending himself, Gabriel had pulled something out of his pocket and pressed a button on it.

A bright white and blue light flashed, illuminating the entire bookshop and bleeding out into the street.

Aziraphale’s world went black.

* * *

_ They were in Eden, both of them. Aziraphale recognized the place, but wasn’t sure when exactly this was. The memory wasn’t right. Crowley was there, as a snake, and he  _ knew _ that snake was Crowley, but they hadn’t met until  _ after _. _

_ He held his flaming sword in his hand, and it felt almost as if he wasn’t in control of his body, begging himself not to do what he was sure was about to happen. _

_ The body didn’t listen, however, and he stepped forward and brought the sword down directly on the snake’s neck. As the head rolled away, Aziraphale wanted to feel sorrow, or anger, or fear, but all he felt was an unwanted pride. _

_ In another world, he was sure, this had happened. Aziraphale had killed the serpent, humanity had never known temptation, and Crowley never had the opportunity to take his angel to dine at the Ritz. _

_ He didn’t want to live in that world. _

* * *

_ It’s 1920 and he runs into Crowley at speakeasy in Detroit. _

_ After the shock in the garden a moment ago, he wants only to reach out to his friend. Embrace him. Prove that he’s real, that he’s okay. _

_ When Crowley pulls out the gun, Aziraphale is stunned. _

_ And then there’s a gun in his hand, too, and he doesn’t want this to happen, can’t go through this again, but it doesn’t stop this time, either. _

_ The headless snake was nothing compared to seeing Crowley’s body with a bullet wound through the skull. Aziraphale stumbles away, finds himself puking in a corner as he tries to tell himself that it isn’t real, that Crowley is fine, was fine in 2019, when they last saw each other. _

_ There are hands on his shoulders and cuffs closing around his wrists and he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t care. The humans can do whatever they want to him, it won’t make Crowley come back. _

* * *

Aziraphale gasped as he awoke, the bright light of a nondescript room in Heaven nearly blinding him as his eyes struggled to adjust from the smokey room he’d just imagined.

He was alone, and the room was bare.

Somewhere along the line, they’d forced him out of his body. He was clad in the simple uniform of a soldier, and his wings were out, folded close to his body. Trying to rescind them into himself, as he often preferred them these days, Aziraphale found he could not. Something was holding him here, preventing him from altering his form or, he suspected, leaving this room.

His suspicions were confirmed moments later when the lock on the door clicked and the door opened.

“He’s awake.” A voice said. It was stern and crisp. Michael’s, perhaps? “Something’s wrong, he’s not responding correctly to the procedure.”

“It’s fine,” Gabriel’s voice replied, booming out. “As long as it achieves its intended purpose.”

Aziraphale thinks there’s more to their conversation, but there’s another flash of light, just like the one at the bookshop, and he feels himself fading back to unconsciousness.

* * *

_ The French Revolution isn’t something you forget and much like in Eden, Aziraphale _ remembers  _ this. It’s the day he was almost discorporated via beheading, but Crowley swept in to save him. _

_ Except he’s not in a cell; he’s in a crowd. _

_ And Crowley is up on the execution block, his head being forced onto the lunette before it’s closed around his neck. Aziraphale runs towards the scene, shouting, begging for anyone to help, to stop this nonsense. _

_ Crowley’s head bounces on the ground after the guillotine blade comes down, and Aziraphale knows that he’ll never listen to Berlioz the same way ever again. _

* * *

The next time Aziraphale comes to, Gabriel is in the room with him, but he barely notices the archangel. He’s seen Crowley be discorporated now dozens of times, in a multitude of horrendous ways, and he’s no longer sure what is real and what isn’t, old memories mixing with the new ones to leave nothing more than a jumble in his head.

“Crowley,” he mutters, letting his wings rest against him and savoring the comfort of their weight. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel responded, his voice less commanding than normal, instead almost gentle. “I’m sorry we must do this, but we know of no other way to break you from your association. It is for your own good.”

He didn’t respond. There was nothing to respond to. If this was the rest of his eternity, he’d rather fall.

He’d rather die.

Hands wrapped around his arms, moving him from his place on the ground until he was resting against the wall, the pressure on his back uncomfortable with the shape of the wings there. He didn’t look at the other angels in the room, didn’t want to know who exactly was responsible for his torment. 

All he wanted, more than anything else in that moment, was Crowley.

Gabriel was speaking again, but Aziraphale didn’t listen. Crowley was all that mattered, and as long as he held onto his love for the demon, there was nothing the archangels could do to hurt him.

There was no flash this time. He fell asleep of his own will, drifting back into the nightmares Heaven forced upon him.

* * *

_ Something is different this time, and Aziraphale can feel the tension in his neck. It’s not unlike when Gabriel showed up in the bookshop, but this feels more dangerous somehow. _

_ He’s in the park. The one Crowley and him spend so much time feeding ducks, talking, and eating ice cream. St. James. But it’s night, and Crowley isn’t here. _

_ Aziraphale is unarmed, as he often is around London, and he’s never wished more for his flaming sword in his life. He wanders through the park, watching the ducks and other birds, and keeping an ear out for anything out of the ordinary. _

_ When Crowley appears, there’s barely a noticeable rustle of movement in the dark. If Aziraphale hadn’t already been facing his approach, he wouldn’t have noticed the demon. _

_ It’s the first time in all of these dreams that they’ve had the opportunity to stand face-to-face, just taking each other in. Crowley isn’t quite right, all steely eyes and rigid posture betraying that as real as all this feels, it’s not the real thing. Aziraphale is so grateful to see him, he almost doesn’t care. _

_ “Crowley, oh, you have to help, it’s been horrible. I-” _

_ “Shut it, angel. I’m here to kill you. Let’s get this over with fast, shall we?” _

_ “What? No. How could you even say that? We’re friends. I -” _

_ The punch to his stomach cuts him off, and a series of blows to his back knock him to the ground. Crowley is  _ unleashing _ on him, as if for the past 6000 years he’s just been waiting to do as much damage to Aziraphale as possible. _

_ Aziraphale, for his part, tries to get up, tries to fight, or to flee, or  _ something _ , but he can’t. He’s stuck. _

_ A foot comes down on his face, and the world shimmers away. _

* * *

_ Crowley’s killed his body a few times now, and each time Aziraphale finds it impossible to stop him. Each time the death is a little more painful, a little more drawn out. Last time, it had taken nearly an hour to die, after Crowley had pushed him off a building and he’d been left on the sidewalk to bleed out. _

_ This time, he was chained to a wall. The cuffs on his hands and feet prevented him from moving very far. _

_ In the darkness, Aziraphale could make out bright yellow snake eyes, and could smell a vague hint of sulfur under the prevailing scent of mold. Another screw-up, reminding him that this wasn’t real. Crowley never smelled strongly of sulfur, choosing instead to earthy or flowery scents depending on his mood. _

_ He always insisted it was just clinging to him from his plants, but Aziraphale suspected that he secretly took great pleasure in perfumes and colognes. _

_ This wasn’t the time to ponder Crowley’s scents, though. He was approaching with a knife, taking one careful step after another, not unlike a snake stalking its prey. Aziraphale struggled against his bindings, catching a glimpse at the knife in Crowley’s hand that looked like it was designed to for angels specifically, glowing sigils on the blade suggesting a holy influence. _

_ It sliced through the flesh and bone of his wrist, when Crowley finally brought it down on him. For the first time, of the hundreds he’d now lived through, Aziraphale begged for this to be over, for him to die and move on. _

_ But he wasn’t dead yet, and the game had to be played to the end. _

_ Watching Crowley eating his hand, tearing off bits of flesh and devouring them like they were just a piece of chicken, was more than Aziraphale could handle. One moment he was watching in horror the bloody stump where he hand had been as he tried to avoid watching Crowley, and the next he was watching the same scene from above, his body having gone limp. _

_ From here, it was almost as if Crowley was doing this to someone else, cutting off bits of flesh one at a time and slowly working his way through them like they were a fancy dinner. A strip of flesh, sheared from Aziraphale’s arm, came next, and then one of his ears. _

_ It didn’t hurt. That wasn’t Aziraphale any longer, and that wasn’t Crowley either. _

_ That was what the Angels got wrong, Crowley was a demon, but he wasn’t a monster. _

* * *

_ After thousands of scenarios of Aziraphale and Crowley killing each other in horrible ways, Aziraphale was ready to give up. He’d never see Crowley again if it meant never having to experience  _ this _ again, either. But something told him he had one more nightmare to live out, one more game to play. _

_ They were in Heaven. Gabriel was there, standing between Aziraphale and Crowley, with Prince Beelzebub at his side. One held hellfire; the other, holy water. _

_ “It is your choice, Aziraphale. You may kill the demon Crowley, or he may kill you.” Gabriel spoke with the same tone he normal did, a little too loud, a little too eager. The smile on his face only added to the facade. _

_ “And if I choose neither?” Aziraphale asked, eyes on Crowley and never leaving. _

_ “Then you both die.” Beelzebub responded. In sharp contrast to Gabriel, they were serious and quiet. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would think the Prince of Hell was uncomfortable with these proceedings. _

_ An impossible decision. He couldn’t possibly choose to live, condemning Crowley to death by holy water. But he also suspected Crowley felt much the same about him, unwilling to live without him. _

_ He thought about his options for a long moment, considering whether or not the two of them would be able to escape together. He didn’t think so, and with that, he supposed his mind was made up. _

_ Opening his mouth, he began to speak. “I choose -” _

* * *

The hands on Aziraphale were different than the previous ones. They were thinner; the fingers longer. And they were shaking him with such force he could barely scramble to push himself even somewhat upright.

It was then that he realized that the legs in front of him were clothed in black pants, rather than the white, cream, or blue he expected of most angels.

Crowley crouched down, so that his face was closer to Aziraphale’s, before he spoke. “We need to hurry. This thing has limited firepower and there are a lot of unhappy angels headed our way.” He motioned to a curiously shaped gun resting on the floor next to them, which he picked up after helping Aziraphale to his feet.

Nothing made sense, but there was one pressing question Aziraphale had in the haze of his mind.   
  
“Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“Is that a hellfire flamethrower?”

“...Yep.”

“ _ That’s awesome. _ ”   
  
“Glad you like it. Let’s get you home.”

Crowley kept a hand on Aziraphale as he led him out of Heaven. It didn’t escape the angel’s notice that on the occasion he used his flamethrower, he aimed to the side of angels approaching him, scaring them but not hurting them. These angels were barely more than footsoldiers, and had nothing to do with what had happened to Aziraphale.

They were nearly at the exit back to Earth when Gabriel stepped in front of them. “Leave here, Demon, and leave Principality Aziraphale with us.”

“Look,  _ Gabriel _ , you can get out of the way and let us pass, or I can see what this hellfire gun really does to angels. How many angels have to die before you give up just this one, hmm?”

Gabriel looked past Crowley’s shoulder, shook his head nearly imperceptibly, and stepped aside as asked. Before they continued their escape, Aziraphale glanced back and saw Michael standing behind him, a soft, sad smile on her face as she nodded at him, his wings finally tucking into him as she did.

They were free.  _ He _ was free. From Heaven and Hell and all the nightmares in between.

Aziraphale wanted to say that the first night was the hardest, that once Crowley had deposited him on the bed in his flat, he’d had all the nightmares he would have, and then he moved on with life.

That was a dream he wasn’t lucky enough to have.

Instead, weeks turned into months, and while the frequency of the nightmares died off, they continued to be just as terrifying as they were in that cell. And Aziraphale, for some reason, was tired  _ all the time _ . Angels weren’t supposed to need sleep, but he couldn’t seem to stop, falling asleep at all sorts of odd hours, and waking up gasping.

He was lucky that Crowley was beside him the entire time, an anchor in stormy seas. When he dreamed that he’d killed Crowley, the demon would wrap his arms around him, stroke his back, mutter reassurances in his ear, and hold him until he drifted off again, or decided to get up and face the day.

Less frequent and more horrific were the dreams of Crowley killing him. Those had been bad enough before, but the increasingly featured gruesome acts that Aziraphale couldn’t just shake off.

He didn’t believe Crowley would dismember and eat him, or that he’d inflict a death by one thousand cuts, or slowly suffocate him, or impale him on a stake and leave him to die.

What he did know, with absolute certainty, was that Crowley  _ would never _ .

But about once a week, he’d awake in Crowley’s arms, and proceed to scramble out of them, burrowing himself in a corner and refusing to move.

Tonight was worse. Dream Crowley had tied him down and slowly dissected him alive. His own shouts woke him up, arms flailing away from nonexistent bonds and hitting Crowley beside him repeatedly as he tried desperately to  _ get away just get away now _ .

There was a bathroom attached to the master bedroom that Crowley and him never used. The door was open, and inside there were no windows. Aziraphale fled to it before Crowley could reach out to him, slamming the door behind him and miracling the lock shut as he forced his body into the small space between the toilet and shower, his hands shaking as he wrapped them around his knees.

He didn’t know how long he was there before there was a knock at the door. Crowley’s voice called through. “Aziraphale? Are you alright?”

“Fine. I- I’m fine!” Aziraphale called back. His voice sounded small to his ears, but the force he had to use to even speak was so great he didn’t know if he could manage any louder.

As it was, he didn’t think he could convince a toad he was fine, but he had to trust that Crowley would give him the space, even if he didn’t believe him. Locks were great, but they didn’t exactly keep out anyone who could just miracle them open.

“I’ll be here if you need me, Angel,” Crowley responded. There was no indication that he was trying the door, or opening the lock.

Aziraphale didn’t reply, instead resting his head on his knees and taking a few deep breaths.

He knew he needed to let Crowley in, needed to give him a better idea of what was happening in his head and why he was so afraid of him sometimes, but the thought of admitting to his friend the true extent of what he suffered at the hands of the archangels was overwhelming. A part of his brain suggested that Crowley would be angry at him, or would launch a war against Heaven all on his own and get himself killed for real.

Or even worse, he’d just walk away.

That was the possibility, however slim, that Aziraphale was most afraid of. For millennia they’d been circling each other, always there even if they weren’t always immediately beside each other, and Aziraphale had grown, well, more than fond of the demon.

And something in him told him that it’d be better to push Crowley away than to let Crowley walk away on his own.

Breathing calmer and shaking fading, Aziraphale miracled the lock open, the click audible in the quiet of the room. Crowley didn’t enter right away, instead knocking against and asking permission first. When he received an affirmative reply, the knob twisted and he stepped into the room.

“Hey,” he said softly, plopping down across from Aziraphale and letting his elbows rest on his knees so that their feet were almost touching, a gangly mirror of Aziraphale’s own position.

“Hey,” Aziraphale responded.

“Doing alright? Need anything?”

“Just a friend, I guess.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

They sat in silence, Crowley watching Aziraphale as he so often did, and Aziraphale occasionally stealing glances at him, in between watching his knees or the floor.

It was a long while before either spoke again.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Aziraphale began.

“Oh? What for?”

“Hitting you, first of all.”

“Didn’t even bruise me, Angel. You pack a punch when you’re trying, but flailing around in bed isn’t exactly the height of your martial prowess.” Crowley paused for a second, letting a silence fall between them, and then started again. “There something else on your mind?”

Aziraphale sighed. It had been months since Crowley had rescued him, and the demon deserved to know. That didn’t make it any easier. “I think I should tell you what happened, Up There.”

Crowley nodded. “The nightmares.”

“Most of them are about me killing you. That’s what most of them up there were, too.”

“But there are others.” It wasn’t a question. Crowley had watched him enough  _ since _ to know that already.

“It’s one thing to shoot your best friend with a gun. It’s another for them to dismember and eat you as you watch from above.” It was hard to think about, and even harder to say. Aziraphale turned his face away as he said it, not wanting to see the look of disgust or anger on Crowley’s face.

“Oh, angel.”

“I know, realistically, it wasn’t you, that you’d never- but it doesn’t make a difference, when it’s happening. Or just after.”

He snuck a glance up at Crowley’s face, and was surprised to see that his look wasn’t one of anger. He wasn’t getting up and walking out. Instead, his expression was soft, and when he finally moved, it was to reach out and bump one sock-clad foot against Aziraphale’s bare foot.

“I realize there’s probably not much I can do to fix this, but if there’s anything…”

“Just, be here? Stay with me?”

“Yeah, I can do that. You only ever had to say the word, Aziraphale.”

They each sat, quiet, for a few minutes longer, before Aziraphale pushed himself up to standing. Crowley followed suit, and while facing each other in a small space, Crowley didn’t even have to step forward to comfortably wrap his arms around His Angel. Aziraphale let his head fall onto Crowley’s shoulder, and relaxed into the warm embrace.

After his earlier panic, Aziraphale was starting to feel fatigued again, wanting nothing more than to curl up in the warm bed with Crowley back at his side. Lips pressed against the top of his head, and he nestled his head further into the curve of Crowley’s neck, savoring the sensation.

When he lifted his head again, and pulled away from Crowley just enough to have space to bend, he put a hand on each of the demon’s shoulders, leaned up, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s.

It wasn’t  _ nothing _ , exactly, so much as it was the  _ promise _ of something. That right now wasn’t the time to try building a relationship, but that they already had an incredible foundation that Aziraphale wanted to acknowledge and appreciate. Under his lips, he could feel Crowley smile against him, not pushing for more, just accepting what Aziraphale willingly offered.

He had a long way to go until he found his normal again, but Aziraphale was glad he’d do it with Crowley at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments appreciated :)


End file.
